Faith

God Bless Me, It's a Best-Seller!

The author's book tour—for God Is Not Great—takes a few miraculous turns, including the P.R. boost from Jerry Falwell's demise, a chance encounter with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and surprising support for an attack on religion.

One of America's most seminal books is William James's The Varieties of Religious Experience, in which he argues that the subjective experience of the divine can be understood only by the believer. I have just been finding out how true this is. You hear all the time that America is an intensely religious nation, but what you don't hear is that there are almost as many religions as there are believers. Moreover, many ostensible believers are quite unsure of what they actually believe. And, to put it mildly, the different faiths don't think that highly of one another. The emerging picture is not at all monolithic.

Christopher Hitchens, head not bowed in prayer, at Seattle's Town Hall—one of 12 stops on his book tour. Photograph by William Anthony.

People seem to be lying to the opinion polls, as well. They claim to go to church in much larger numbers than they actually do (there aren't enough churches in the country to hold the hordes who boast of attending), and they sometimes seem to believe more in Satan and in the Virgin Birth than in the theory of evolution. But every single time that the teaching of "intelligent design" has actually been proposed in conservative districts, it has been defeated overwhelmingly by both courts and school boards. A fascinating new book, 40 Days and 40 Nights, describes this happening in detail in the small town of Dover, Pennsylvania. Its author, Matthew Chapman, is the great-great-grandson of Charles Darwin, which helps make Dover the modern version of the Scopes "Monkey Trial," in Dayton, Tennessee, in 1925, with the difference that this time the decision went the other way. A Republican-appointed judge described the school board's creationist effort as "breathtaking inanity."

Could there be a change in the Zeitgeist coming on? I think it's possible. A 2001 study found that those without religious affiliation are the fastest-growing minority in the United States. A generation ago the words "American atheist" conjured the image of the slightly cultish and loopy Madalyn Murray O'Hair. But in the last two years there have been five atheist best-sellers, one each from Professors Richard Dawkins and Daniel Dennett and two from the neuroscientist Sam Harris. As the author of the fifth of these books, I asked my publishers to arrange my book tour as a series of challenges to the spokesmen of the faithful, and to send me as far as possible to the South. The following is an account of some of the less expected moments of the trip.

April 22, Little Rock, Arkansas: I leave the Vanity Fair party, given at my apartment after the White House Correspondents' Dinner, at 4:30 a.m. to catch the red-eye from Washington to the Arkansas Book Fair. My last memory of the D.C. bash is of Justice Antonin Scalia debating some of the sharper points of Catholic doctrine with California attorney general Jerry Brown. I decide against wearing my black-tie evening attire for the day-trip. On the road from the Little Rock airport is an enormous black-and-yellow billboard bearing the single word jesus: this is just how people like to imagine Dixie. My book isn't even technically published, yet there's an overflow Sunday crowd. I start by mentioning the sign. I know the name, I say, and I have used the expression. But on its own the word "Jesus" seems to say both too much and (somehow) too little. This gets more of a laugh than I might have predicted. At the end of the event I discover something that I am going to keep on discovering: half the people attending had thought that they were the only atheists in town.

May 1, New York City: An evening at the Union League Club, sponsored by the conservative David Horowitz. A full house of upscale right-wingers who at least agree with me on the single issue of fighting Islamic jihadism. A generally receptive and friendly audience as I am interviewed by the publisher Peter Collier. He's just closed the meeting when a man in a clerical collar puts up his hand. In a magnanimous mood, I say, Fair enough—let's extend the event for a man of the cloth. This turns out to be Father George Rutler of the Church of Our Saviour, who announces that he's on the committee of the club and will make sure that I am never invited there again. There's some shock at this inhospitable attitude, but I think: Gosh. Holy Mother Church used to threaten people with eternal damnation. Now it's exclusion from the Union League Club. What a comedown. In a brisk exchange near the elevator, the good father assures me that I shall die a Catholic. Why do people think this is such a good point?

May 3, New York City: To the Lou Dobbs show, on CNN—Mr. Middle America at prime time. Mr. Dobbs displays a satirical paragraph from my book, about the number of virgin births that all religions have always claimed. He tells me off-air that he quit Sunday school as a very small boy, and that he's raised all his children without religion. He lets me bang on a lot. At the end, he refers to my new American citizenship, the oath of which I swore at the Jefferson Memorial on April 13 (Mr. Jefferson's birthday, and mine). I get to try out my latest slogan, echoing what Jefferson said about the "wall of separation" between church and state: "Mr. Jefferson—build up that wall!" Mr. Dobbs leans over and, on-camera, pins an American flag to my lapel. Patriotism and secularism in the same breath, on middle-class TV. It can be done. As I leave, Dobbs says wryly that he'll now have to deal with all the e-mails. I promise him that they will be in his favor and ask to have them forwarded. The mailbag eventually breaks about 70-30 in support, though one woman does say that she'll never tune in to CNN again.

May 7, New York City: To the New York Public Library to debate Al Sharpton, a man who proves every day that you can get away with anything in this country if you can shove the word "Reverend" in front of your name. To a question about Mormonism and Mitt Romney, I reply that it's high time the governor was asked about the official racism of his Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: a policy of exclusion that persisted until 1978. Sharpton responds that the "real" Christians will be numerous enough to defeat Romney next year: a remark which earns itself a 24-hour media life. I notice again how much the Christians love one another, and I get the chance to go back to Lou Dobbs and say so on-air.

May 11, Washington, D.C.: In the studio of The Christian Science Monitor to debate with Pastor Stephan Munsey, leader of a mega-church in Indiana, plus a Baptist theologian from Wake Forest University. The Baptist theologian rather astonishes the host by saying that he basically agrees with me, and Mr. Munsey rather astonishes me by announcing that the good lord cured his daughter of Hodgkin's disease (though he waited until she had lost most of her hair and her body weight before deciding to do so). Hodgkin's disease is actually much more easily cured these days, largely owing to advances in stem-cell research which will now be halted or delayed to please the faithful.

May 14, Austin, Texas: A phone-in with WPTF ("We Protect the Family"), a conservative talk-radio station in North Carolina. The questions are very civil until the end, when I am asked if I know the anti-Christian works of Friedrich Nietzsche. I say that I have my differences with Nietzsche, but that I know his stuff. Am I aware, inquires the questioner, that when he was writing that very stuff he was suffering from terminal syphilitic decay? Slightly baffled, I reply that I have heard as much but don't know it to be true. Do I think, comes the next question, that there is a similar explanation for my own work? Should have seen that coming. My response is that I obviously can't be the best judge but that it's very compassionate of him to ask.

In the evening to debate with Marvin Olasky at the L.B.J. Library. Olasky is the man who coined the term "compassionate conservatism" and helped evolve Bush's "faith-based initiative." He's a convert from both Judaism and Communism. He tells the audience that his record as a married man improved after he became a Christian. I'm ready to believe it. He also mentions many nice people who do good things because of their faith. I reply that I am ready to believe that too, as long as it's admitted that many people behave worse because of their religion. My challenge: name an ethical statement or action, made or performed by a person of faith, that could not have been made or performed by a nonbeliever. I have since asked this question at every stop and haven't had a reply yet.

Olasky's book on presidential morality (which sadly was written before this president took office) says that George Washington won the Revolutionary War because he forbade drinking and swearing in the ranks of his army, whereas the British forces were awash in immorality. I argue that the war was won largely by the French, who were not strangers to wine or oaths, and that the American troops at Valley Forge were much inspired by Thomas Paine, who may not have cursed all that much but who never left the brandy bottle alone and who thought that Christianity was a joke. Moreover, the Brits—indicted by Olasky for their indulgence in adultery and even buggery—did manage to hold on to Canada, India, much of the Caribbean, and much of Africa in spite of divine disapproval. "God on Our Side" is one of the oldest and weakest arguments in human history.

May 15, Raleigh, North Carolina: At the airport, strangers approach to say, "Thanks for coming to take on the theocrats." Apparently the good folks at WPTF announced after my appearance on their show yesterday that I was going to hell. This doesn't prevent a huge crowd from showing up, which in turn means that Quail Ridge Books has to move the event into a neighboring Unitarian church. (The rector whispers to me, "I ought not to say this, but the church has never been this full before.") My opponent tonight is the very courteous Dr. Adam English, from the religion department at Campbell University. He's another Baptist, but when I ask if he believes Calvin's teaching about hell and pre-destination, he doesn't love the question. Southern hospitality is rightly famous, and he may think it would be rude to condemn a visitor to hellfire. Then again, he can easily tell that the audience is not with him. Many southerners are annoyed by the presumption that they are all snake handlers and shout-and-holler artists, and the most critical questions all go to Dr. English, who has unwisely told the local paper that he'll win the argument because god is on his team. Again I notice two things: the religious types are unused to debate and are surprised at how many people are impatient with them, or even scornful.

Jerry Falwell—another man who managed to get away with murder by getting himself called "Reverend"—dies without being bodily "raptured" into the heavens. Indeed, his heavy carcass is found on the floor of his Virginia office. The cable shows start to call and I have a book to sell: maybe someone up there does love me after all.

May 16, Atlanta: My publishers had at first told me that I couldn't find a debater in this great city, but the Margaret Mitchell House now asks if I can do not just one session with an opponent but two sessions back-to-back, in order to accommodate excess demand. The museum and library are magnificent and show a picture of the young Martin Luther King Jr. in the little-boys' choir at the opening night of Gone with the Wind. I consider myself free of superstition, but I have to confess that I still find that quite arresting. The defender of the faith on this occasion is Timothy Jackson, a professor of Christian ethics at Emory University, and he cheerfully agrees to do the "second house." He's by far the best yet, and obviously enjoys the argument, but is clearly surprised by the roars of applause that greet any of my attacks on Falwell. (One sees the same pinched and flabby look on the faces of Sean Hannity and the other TV hosts who want me to say at least a compassionate word about this departed fraud. At one point, Hannity wheels out Ralph Reed as a mourner, as if unaware that ostentatious grief from the friends of Jack Abramoff is exactly what the Christian right might have wanted to avoid at this moment of bereavement.)

The motto of the Confederacy was Deo Vindice, or "God on Our Side." Atlanta was burned to ashes by people who thought that the deity took the other view. I basically implore the audience to get over it, and to consider the strong possibility that heaven takes no side at all in human affairs. I know that this is still a minority position, but it's quite easy to defend and very difficult to disprove, as I think the devout Dr. Jackson might agree.

May 17, Coral Gables, Florida: I owe an apology. It is absolutely not true, as urban legend has it, that Orthodox Jews conduct sexual congress through a hole in the sheet. I should never have mentioned this slander, even in passing, in my book. (It won't appear in the reprint.) At the Temple Judea, a Reform synagogue that seats a thousand people, I make this concession in an exchange with Nathan Katz. But when I go on to attack the Jewish prayer that thanks god for not making you a woman or a Gentile, I get quite a bit of applause. As well as featuring Katz, the panel of my critics contains a Muslim woman scholar, a Buddhist nun, and a charismatic Catholic. What if all these people were to walk into a bar at the same time? Surely the barman would ask if it was some kind of joke.

The Second Presbyterian Church in New York puts up a sign in big letters, reading, christopher hitchens doesn't know what he's talking about. These are the people whose early dominance of America was described by Jefferson as witchcraft and inquisition. As against that, my book is climbing the best-seller list and is outselling the Pope's volume on Jesus Christ.

June 5, Los Angeles: A three-hour debate with the Reverend Mark Roberts, senior pastor of Irvine Presbyterian Church, in Orange County, on Hugh Hewitt's conservative Christian chat show. Very nice of Mr. Hewitt. The Rev doesn't accuse me of not knowing what I'm talking about: indeed, he's very civil about the book. At one point I ask him if he believes the story in Saint Matthew's Gospel about the graves opening in Jerusalem at the time of the crucifixion, and the occupants walking the streets. Doesn't it rather cheapen the idea of resurrection? He replies that as a Christian he does believe it, though as a historian he has his doubts. I realize that I am limited here: I can usually think myself into an opponent's position, but this is something I can't imagine myself saying, let alone thinking.

June 7, Seattle: A host on the local Fox radio station says he's appalled that I can't find a debate partner for this evening's event at Town Hall. After all, Seattle is the home of the Discovery Institute: powerhouse of the "intelligent design" movement. We go on to debate matters on-air, and when I say that I also can't find any Catholic who really believes in the Virgin Birth, he responds that he jolly well does. No you don't, I reply, not really. Yes I do, he insists. I believe in the Immaculate Conception of Jesus Christ. I have to break it to him that the Immaculate Conception and the Virgin Birth are two different things: it was Mary who, according to a Vatican dogma dating back only to 1854, was immaculately conceived. I run into this kind of thing all the time: what else do people imagine they are believing? And hasn't it come to something when I have to tell Catholics what their church teaches?

June 10, Washington, D.C.: It's been weeks on the road, and after a grueling swing through Canada I am finally home. I tell the wife and daughter that's it: no more god talk for a bit—let's get lunch at the fashionable Café Milano, in Georgetown. Signor Franco leads us to a nice table outside and I sit down—right next to the Archbishop of Canterbury. O.K., then, this must have been meant to happen. I lean over. "My Lord Archbishop? It's Christopher Hitchens." "Good gracious," he responds, gesturing at his guest—"we were just discussing your book."

The archbishop's church is about to undergo a schism. More than 10 conservative congregations in Virginia have seceded, along with some African bishops, to protest the ordination of a gay bishop in New England. I ask him how it's going. "Well"—he lowers his voice—"I'm rather trying to keep my head down." Well, why, in that case, I want to reply, did you seek a job that supposedly involves moral leadership? But I let it go. What do I care what some Bronze Age text says about homosexuality? And there's something hopelessly innocent about the archbishop: he looks much more like a sheep than a shepherd. What can one say in any case about a religion that describes its adherents as a flock?

According to a report in The Wall Street Journal, my book is selling particularly well in the Bible Belt, on a "know thine enemy" basis. And I get encouraging letters from atheists in foxholes in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as from people who feel that they are at last emerging from some kind of closet. One day a decent candidate for high office will say that he is not a person of faith, and the sky will not fall. Everywhere I speak, I find that the faithful go to church for a mixture of reasons, from social to charitable to ethnic, and take their beliefs à la carte or cafeteria-style, choosing the bits they like and discarding the rest. The Christianity Today Web site, which has hosted me in an online debate with its champion Douglas Wilson for the past two months, writes to say that Mr. Wilson wants to send me a wheel of Washington State cheese, as a token of appreciation. A nice surprise. Blessed are the cheese-makers.